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There were four walls in the room where I almost grew up

If you live a working class life, you’ll turn green and bile will rise to your mouth

Babies come from science, they come from the earth, they come from coal-mines

Fighter jets are told what to do by businessmen, CEOs, and presidents

What we live on is held by women, how we die is controlled by the men


My knees shook when I came close to that room

It was like I had died years and years ago and it was me in the box

If it was me then they sure had given me a good burial

I wonder what I did to deserve lavish canopic jars

The gold was faded, but it was still there


When I think about death I think about the picture that used to be in the living room

It was swirly and confusing and monochrome

When I sit up straight in bed and exclaim in shock, the picture rushes to my head

I remember in the dark that life has always been like this


The Egyptians knew death, and so do modern artists

The modern artists drip anxieties

Egyptians competed to have the finest tombs

They made death into a status symbol

I wish I could understand as much as they did

I wish I could live knowing the truth about time


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